


coloring

by a spot of elle grey (minniemoments)



Series: x-chankai drabbles [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MAMA Era Powers (EXO), Minor Violence, Music Video: Obsession (EXO), Obsession, X-Chankai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minniemoments/pseuds/a%20spot%20of%20elle%20grey
Summary: Jøngin hums in response, nuzzles into Chanyeøl like he wants to meld them together, hand tracing patterns idly. He’s adrift a while longer, drunk on the hope they won’t talk about last night. Can’t he say his feelings like this?But the metronome of Chanyeøl’s thumb stops and Jøngin tenses, breath caught and forgetting how to keep time on its own. Not yet - please, he thinks, wants to put together the words he needs, but doesn’t know how, never knows how.
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Park Chanyeol
Series: x-chankai drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902832
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	coloring

**Author's Note:**

> continuation of "let it go"
> 
> title referencing "Coloring" by Kevin Garrett

Sunlight bleeds into their bedroom, casting everything honey and bronze. Jøngin’s mouth finds Chanyeøl’s skin, pressing morning kisses, lazy and open-mouthed, to the nape of his neck, smiling at the way his hair tickles his nose. He doesn’t want to think yet, doesn’t want to know the time, day, anything except the feel of Chanyeøl against him, warm and anchoring.

Chanyeøl slowly rouses, sometime between playful nips and soft suckling, shifting, trying to stretch, but bound by Jøngin’s hold secure around his waist, his leg hitched high on his hip. A yawn pulls through his body, ending in a groan of approval at Jøngin’s efforts to give him a new mark. 

“Mornin’, baby,” Chanyeøl murmurs, baritone and groggy, hand finding Jøngin’s thigh, thumb rubbing affectionately.

Jøngin hums in response, nuzzles into Chanyeøl like he wants to meld them together, hand tracing patterns idly. He’s adrift a while longer, drunk on the hope they won’t talk about last night. Can’t he say his feelings like this?

But the metronome of Chanyeøl’s thumb stops and Jøngin tenses, breath caught and forgetting how to keep time on its own.  _ Not yet - please _ , he thinks, wants to put together the words he needs, but doesn’t know how, never knows how.

Chanyeøl pats Jøngin’s thigh, a silent request to let him go. Jøngin swallows down the need to be stubborn, to get his way, and obligingly rolls onto his back. Chanyeøl follows, arms slipping under his own, gaze intense, capturing.

It makes Jøngin want to squirm under the weight of it, feeling pinned and bared. Chanyeøl dips to bring their mouths together in a languid kiss, reminding Jøngin how to breathe.

“Need to see, baby,” Chanyeøl says quiet and simple, pressing another kiss to the corner of Jøngin’s mouth.

Jøngin manages a small “okay”, settles into the mattress and lets Chanyeøl pull away the covers, a shiver slipping down his spine from the chilled bedroom. Chanyeøl studies Jøngin’s stomach for a moment, fingertips ghosting near the arc above Jøngin’s navel. The sight of his fingerprints branded makes his chest tight and his mind struggles to avoid falling into old ways of thinking that this is all he can do, all he is, that he’s destined to harm and destroy.

“Jøngin…” he starts, holds Jøngin’s waist, tender and precious, not sure what he wants to say, feels like his words are useless, all the apologies he wants to voice eating him up and clawing to get out. When he looks up, Jøngin’s eyes are so open, so trusting, but he can feel the tension that settles in Jøngin’s body. Knows he doesn’t want to talk about this, but they  _ have _ to.

Chanyeøl swallows, tries to be the strong one again, continues, “Baby, you’re not safe with me.”

“I don’t  _ care _ ,” Jøngin bites, already frustrated by where this conversation is going, “It’s my decision.”

“Oh?” Chanyeøl asks, knowing it’s too early to be talking about this, knowing he’s too volatile, but his thoughts don’t catch up to his mouth, “And if  _ my _ loss of control winds up burning you bad enough to give you 2nd degree burns? 3rd degree burns? What then?”

“I’ll heal,” Jøngin says, chin raised in defiance, but there’s a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

A twisted part of Chanyeøl wants Jøngin afraid, wants fear to make him see reason - makes Chanyeøl move slow and purposeful, peering down at Jøngin and pinning him with his expression, asking him careful and measured, his own fear simmering hot underneath, “And if the bed catches fire? If there is no chance for you to heal? If you  _ die _ ? What then, love?”

Jøngin slaps him, leaving a harsh mark on Chanyeøl’s cheek, eyes shining, heart racing, “Don’t.”

Chanyeøl captures Jøngin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, ignoring the sting of his cheek, needing Jøngin to understand. Stares him down for a moment to let his nerves run wild, gaze melancholic and falsely threatening.

“I need you to listen to me,” Chanyeøl states, pauses for a beat before sighing, ready to go back to sleep, to try again, “Jøngin, I… I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“I’m not helpless,” Jøngin says, fight gone, needing Chanyeøl to hear him too. 

He lets his body slip like water through hands, reappearing like a mirage in his own bedroom. 

He hasn’t seen it in months - forgot how miserable it looks here, white-turned-gray paint peeling, poorly lit by the sole window squashed in the corner of the square room. His bed is topped with blankets he scavenged for, simple muted tones of cotton, and it’s not where he wants to be right now, but it’ll do. 

His mind is blank when he makes the decision to crawl under the covers, to drift back to sleep and try to forget.

***

When he wakes again, it’s afternoon. He feels colder than when he went to sleep and mentally curses his body for not knowing how to properly retain heat, tries to wrap the covers tighter, but there’s less than he remembers.

His mind slowly registers the scent of Chanyeøl on the sheets he’s curled into, idly wonders how he missed that scent before, sinks deeper into the mattress, inhaling deep - calmed even though he doesn’t know how he’ll face him, when he’ll face him.

Aches and cricks seep into his muscles, penance for sleeping too long, and he knows he needs to get up, face whatever is waiting for him. His mind replays their earlier conversation and there’s a pang of bitterness when he realizes Chanyeøl’s never called him “love” before - the urge to lash out courses through him again with the image of how cold Chanyeøl’s eyes were, detached and foreign.

He needs a shower, hopes the pipes will grant him something warm enough to relax him, clear his mind, soothe his body.

When he climbs out from the covers, he curses, realizing he teleported back to Chanyeøl’s part of the compound. Maybe he is pathetic.

“Jøngin?” Chanyeøl says, quiet and disbelieving in the doorway of the bedroom, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, “I didn't think you wanted to see me… I'm sorry. I was out of line.”

“I didn't think I did either,” Jøngin sighs, noting the way Chanyeøl winces, but doesn't acknowledge it.

They're silent for a moment and Chanyeøl shuffles to put away the book he was holding. It's something he's read before - the reading material of the compound is limited and worn, some books even have whole chapters missing either from misuse or censoring. Still the topic nurtures the part of him that's empathetic, the part that the Observers call an error and a defect. He reads it more often since Jøngin abandoned his hold in favor of his.

“I did that all wrong this morning,” Chanyeøl sighs, looking at the woodgrain of the bookshelf, grip tight on the edge of it.

Jøngin stares at the sag of Chanyeøl’s shoulders, the dip of his head, the restless way his thumbs move across the piney, dilapidated bookshelf. The urge to comfort tugs at him, nearly moves his feet in Chanyeøl’s direction if it weren’t for the bitter knot coiled tight, the upset, hurt, anger, frustration, fatigue swirled like a vine choking any want to be good, to let them talk and work through this.

“Not now,” Jøngin says, tone without affect - words and nuances all remote, out of reach.

Chanyeøl makes something akin to a nod and Jøngin steals away to the bathroom, needing something mundane to help him think.

-

The heat of the shower warms his skin, coaxes away the goosebumps that dotted his arms and legs. He washes gingerly, careful to avoid getting soap on the barely-healed burn mark on his stomach. He stares at the skin, letting water pitter patter against his neck as he studies the mark, fighting the urge to touch and press it, fit his fingers over the marks of Chanyeøl’s. They’re more prominent than any of his other marks - only his hip bones and wrists have marks, but they’re nearly faded and gone. The insistent need for more consumes him, somehow most assured, most secure when his skin shows it.

He absentmindedly washes his hair, letting his thoughts drift without purpose. He tenses when he thinks of the steely gaze turned on him this morning, the predatorial way Chanyeøl mused his death and the twistedness of being called “love”.

His body shimmers, vibrates too, too, too fast, his molecules unbound, unadhered, unfocused and he feels something bend painfully wrong before righting itself a moment later.

He leans against the tile of the shower, breathing short and stilted, chest tight.

The water starts to run cold and his hands slide down, falling limply to his sides. He breathes deeper this time, exhaling with a shiver as the last of the warmth ebbs from his body. Jøngin pulls himself off the shower tile, turns off the shower before it starts to make that god-awful rattling sound.

When he resurfaces, dressed in a muted jumper and similarly grey pants, Chanyeøl’s left the bedroom. The bed sheets and comforter are tucked neatly and Jøngin wonders how long he took before tossing his clothes down the laundry chute in the wall.

He finds Chanyeøl in the kitchenette, stirring something on the stove. There’s two bowls on the counter next to him, but a couple of dirty dishes are strewn around the small living space of the hold. Not sure what else to do, he collects the dishes wordlessly, ignoring his disdain for chores, and dumps them in the sink.

He turns on the faucet, letting it creak and sputter before a stream starts spattering against the porcelain. He squeezes too much soap into the sink, making the water sudsy. Once the sink is sufficiently full, he switches off the faucet and starts washing, needing the distraction.

“You called me ‘love’,” Jøngin murmurs, diving head-first into the conversation he’s been dreading. His hands still feel jittery, even submerged under water, his knuckles vibrating against the other dishes like they’ll disappear without him.

“You are,” Chanyeøl says, still stirring, hands much steadier, “You are.”

“You made it hurt,” Jøngin says, rinsing the dish and carefully setting it down on the drying cloth, thankful that he doesn’t break it.

“I shouldn’t have -”

“You  _ did _ ,” Jøngin bites, briefly considers picking the dish back up to hurl it at the wall, hear it shatter and fracture, but instead he lets a swell of words out, reckless, “I’m not helpless. I’m  _ faster _ than you. You wouldn’t even have the chance to kill me, I wouldn’t  _ let _ you.”

The spoon stops, softly clinking when it rests against the pot.

“I wouldn’t kill you,” Chanyeøl states, shutting off the burner, “I don’t think you’re helpless either.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Jøngin says, gripping the counter to try to stop the tremors in his hands, “I can handle you.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Chanyeøl says, abandoning the stew to come closer to Jøngin, drawn despite himself, hands bracketing Jøngin’s, barely touching.

“I want to” is all Jøngin says, relief coursing through him when the tremors stop.

There’s a few beats where neither of them say anything, only the mechanical whirring of the generators thrumming and their breaths beneath that.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/aspotofellegrey)   
>  [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/aspotofellegrey)


End file.
